C said nothing for a long moment, the gun locked unwaveringly upon Alderley. ‘If the full truth were to come out, it would be catastrophic for Britain. Don’t you agree?’
‘I… would have to say yes,’ he replied uneasily.
‘But if anyone who knew the full truth were to be silenced, unable to reveal it, then the realm would remain protected. That is, of course, our job as officers of SIS. To serve and defend our country… by doing whatever is necessary.’
Alderley’s eyes widened in alarm as C stood, the gun still fixed on its target. ‘Sir, I don’t know the full truth!’ he protested.
The head of MI6 regarded him without emotion… then let out a small, resigned sigh. ‘Which makes you very fortunate, Peter.’
He put the gun’s muzzle in his own mouth — and pulled the trigger.
Quentin Hove strode angrily into Briefing Room A to find it already occupied. More people than before were present, the previous attendees joined by Claire Parker, one of the junior ministers at the Home Office; though she was relatively young and held only a secondary role in her department, the Home Secretary’s incapacitation meant she was technically the highest-ranking minister capable of participating. Also present amongst other new arrivals was Sir Rupert Jennings, the Private Secretary to the Sovereign. Hove was surprised to see him, as national security briefings were not part of his usual remit, but considering the circumstances he assumed the Queen herself had ordered him to find out how her government intended to respond to the attack on the nation.
His anger was because he had not instigated the COBRA meeting. Instead, he had been called — almost summoned — to the Cabinet Offices. ‘Right,’ he said as the others in the room stood upon his entrance, ‘what’s going on, and why couldn’t I be told over the phone? We can’t afford to waste any time in this crisis.’
He took his place, everyone else sitting down. MI5’s Director-General was first to speak. ‘Prime Minister, there have been a number of alarming developments. The first concerns C.’
Hove belatedly realised that the head of SIS was conspicuously absent. ‘Why isn’t he here?’
‘Sir Kirkland is regrettably unable to attend due to his death,’ said Blandford, gravely deadpan.
The Prime Minister stared at him in disbelief. ‘What?’
‘He committed suicide in his office an hour ago.’
‘What?’ The word was almost a yelp. ‘Why?’
‘The extremely disturbing intelligence we’ve received from the Americans may have had something to do with it,’ the Director-General went on. ‘Evidence has come to light concerning an SIS officer called John Brice, the crash of the Skyblue Airlines 747 in the Atlantic last year, and secessionist militias in the Democratic Republic of Congo.’
Hove felt a cold fear. ‘What has any of that got to do with today’s attack? We’ve got bigger concerns than some jungle backwater.’
‘It would appear that it has a great deal to do with it, Prime Minister.’ Somehow, the title sounded more like an insult. ‘This Brice, though supposedly having resigned two years ago, claimed on camera that he was actually still an SIS officer working in deep cover to aid the secessionist movement. As part of his mission, he freed a wanted war criminal from American custody — while he was aboard an American airliner on the way to the US to stand trial. The airliner crashed into the ocean with the loss of all aboard. If he was indeed a British operative acting under orders, then I’m sure you would agree that such an act would be tantamount to an act of war against our closest ally.’
‘People — people claim to be MI6 agents all the time,’ Hove managed to say. ‘If he resigned, then he resigned. Any actions he took after that would be those of a mercenary — or a lunatic.’
‘There, ah, there is something more to it, Prime Minister,’ said Parker, sounding extremely nervous as she opened a folder. ‘John Brice was given indefinite Section 7 immunity for anything he did relating to a mission in the Congo.’ Her hands trembled as she held up a sheet of paper. ‘It, um, it was signed by you, sir. Two years ago. When you were, ah, Foreign Secretary.’
‘I know what I was doing two years ago!’ Hove snapped, recognising his signature and trying to hide his terror behind anger. ‘I signed Section 7 orders for dozens of MI6 officers. That doesn’t mean I authorised one of our own men to destroy an American plane!’
‘It does mean there is a direct link between yourself and John Brice, Prime Minister,’ said Blandford. ‘Have you had any further contact with him since?’
‘I didn’t even have contact with him when I signed the order!’ Hove glared at him. ‘Are you interrogating me, Timothy?’
‘Merely trying to uncover the facts necessary for the protection of the realm, Prime Minister.’ The MI5 head turned to the Director of GCHQ beside him. ‘Clive, if you would?’
Clive Collins, head of the communications spy agency, took out a small digital recorder and pushed the play button. Hove flinched in shock as he heard his own voice come from the little speaker — along with those of C and Brice. ‘We — you, you’ve destroyed Parliament! You must have killed everyone inside!’ the short but damning recording concluded.
All eyes were upon him, the emotions behind them different — dismay, anger, hostility — but none positive. ‘Where did you get that?’ Hove demanded, knowing his only defence was to attack. ‘Politicians are specifically excluded by law from being monitored by GCHQ — especially the Prime Minister! This isn’t just inadmissible, it’s illegal! It’s — it’s treason!’
‘We didn’t intercept this, sir,’ said Collins. ‘It was given to us by the Americans. The mere fact that they’ve revealed the NSA can crack our encrypted calls — we’re implementing countermeasures already, of course — shows how important they believe this is.’
‘It’s interesting that you should use the term “treason”, Quentin,’ Blandford said pointedly. ‘Because it sounds very much as if you personally authorised today’s attack on Parliament.’
‘This is ludicrous!’ barked Hove. ‘I’m trying to deal with an attack on this country, and you’re wasting my time with ridiculous allegations! This meeting is over.’
‘Actually, Prime Minister,’ said Jennings, speaking for the first time, ‘it is not.’ He too had a folder before him, marked with the Great Seal of the Realm: notice that the documents within had been personally signed by the monarch. Almost regretfully, he opened it and took out the pages within. ‘This is an action unprecedented in modern times, but in light of the evidence, Her Majesty is exercising her prerogative to remove a minister of the crown from office pending an investigation. The named minister… is you, Prime Minister. I am here to serve you formally with notice of your removal, effective immediately.’
Hove jumped up, slamming his palms on the desk. ‘This is outrageous! The Queen doesn’t have the authority to remove me. I’m not some mere functionary — I’m the Prime Minister! She acts upon my instructions!’
Jennings was unruffled. ‘Technically speaking, the Prime Minister serves at Her Majesty’s pleasure; that is the exact legal term. She has the power to dismiss any member of her government at will. She also has the right in times of grave constitutional crisis — again, the exact term — to overrule the decisions of her ministers. I would consider the deaths of over a third of all Members of Parliament in a terrorist attack to indeed qualify as such.’ He slid the papers down the desk to the man at its head. ‘Mr Hove, you are no longer the Prime Minister.’